More Than Us
by Emmelyn Cindy Mah
Summary: A collection of Steve and Nat one-shots. There's definitely friendship between the two jarringly-different Avengers, but there's also a strangely omnipresent attraction that threatens to change the basis of their relationship. VI: Saturday Night's Alright For Fighting - Fury decides Steve needs a distraction after New York.
1. I: Smiling Face

**Title:** More Than Us

**By:** Emmelyn Cindy Mah

**Category:** Movies/Captain America: The Winter Soldier

**Sub-category:** Friendship/Romance

**Summary:** A collection of Steve and Nat one-shots. There's definitely friendship between the two jarringly-different Avengers, but there's also a strangely omnipresent attraction that threatens to change the basis of their relationship. Do they allow it? Will they ever?

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Marvel. Or write for Marvel. Or in fact write for any of the Marvel Movies, though I'd take a job on that front any day. HINT HINT.

* * *

**I: Smiling Face**

* * *

"Tell me again how that's a face."

He was peering at the screen of his phone, prominent brows furrowed in deep concentration. Blessed at an opportune moment with a junction and a stoplight, Nat watched the all-American.

She didn't know whether she was more amused or bemused.

"Flip the phone—no, not so fast, or the screen's just going to flip with you." She snatched the device from his hands, then lifted it to the side of her head, holding it up against her cheek. "See?"

Bright, bright eyes shifted quickly. Screen, her face. Screen, her lips. One last flick, and then he met her eyes.

Then, he grinned, that boyish, almost sheepish smile he wore whenever he learnt something new. She'd seen that look on him quite frequently since the incident in New York.

Every time, it made her heart skip a little.

"You don't smile that way, though." He retrieved the device as the lights blinked green. She shifted gears; out of the corner of her eye, she felt his gaze upon her. "You sort of quirk one side of your lips up."

"_You_ smile that way."

"Do I? I've never noticed."

She snorted; he arched a quizzical brow. "I have a hard time imagining you smiling at yourself in the mirror, is all."

He chuckled, sounding amused. "I don't."

"It's a nice smile, though." It was surprisingly easy to admit. She added, then—"Ever see a happy corgi?"

"Are you calling me a dog, Romanoff?"

"Only if you think I am."

They were nearing the edge of the city, abandoning bustling streets for the stretch of highway that would take them to their rendezvous point. The STRIKE team would have assembled, the carrier prepared.

It irked her somewhat that all she wanted was for the drive to last forever; and if not forever, longer than the few hours it would take. It grated at her all the more because control and desire were _her_ game, _her_ toys, _her_ tools.

She hated the effect the blue-eyed boy had on her. Hated and loved his innocence and naiveté. Reverent of and repulsed by his role as both a moral compass and defender of righteousness.

Most of all, she hated the way he made her question: hate or love?

More and more, she was finding it was the latter. It was hard to hate someone with that much goodness in him.

She told herself that was all there was to it.

"What's a meme?" His voice jerked her from her thoughts. She packed away the feelings of disgust, sought the wry, witty sometimes-companion she thought Captain America seemed to like.

It wasn't very hard to find that version of herself.

Once again, he wore that look of concentration. She leaned over and peered at his screen. "Did you just Google _smiling corgi_—I don't believe it, you did."

He looked a touch confused. It was sheepish confusion, tinged with slight embarrassment. That face—the one she loved and hated best. "Well, if you were comparing me to a dog, I wanted to know which kind."

"Rogers, I was _not_ calling you a dog."

He cracked a smile at her quick rebuttal, amused at her amusement. "Hey, it's okay. They're pretty cute."

"In a, just got high sort of way?"

He'd only just started to protest amid a bout of almost guilty chuckling, when she'd turned to flash him a grin. It seemed almost natural with him—but then he blinked, and the chuckling slowly died away.

What remained was the smile he always seemed to wear in her presence. Slightly unsure, but warm. Wary, yet in its own way, trusting and fond.

His voice was soft. "Hey, now you've got that smiling face."

She tried for a careless dismissal. "You don't deserve the Sourpuss face I save for Stark."

"I get the corgi smile?"

He looked genuinely touched, happy, even. She felt the smile deepen. "I'll show you a real corgi smile when we get there."

* * *

**A/N:** First off—I'm a shipper. I ship. Heh.

Secondly, really, who're they kidding with all that chemistry and barely-repressed sexual tension? I'm not a comic book reader, but boy have the movies made Steve and Nat out to be so darn good for each other. AND, Ultimate Avengers sails my ship!

Third—title is slightly more solemn. I get the feeling sometimes Steve and Nat think they're not enough for each other, which is of course leads to the main title. I promise some of these should be lighthearted, so enjoy the ride! Also, for the abrupt end I wrote in, I imagine she grabbed his phone when they got there and typed in :D, and that was his real corgi smile. Gahahaa, poor Steve isn't impressed in my head.

Fourth—if you've gotten this far to reading my ramblings, thanks! I hope you enjoyed this first oneshot, and hopefully I'll get into the right frame of mind to write another soonish! In my current shipping state, I'm not too worried it'd take too long. Drop me a review with suggestions, or just to send me some love, though!


	2. II: Lie To Me

**II: Lie to me**

* * *

He was mad. Captain America was mad, by far the angriest she'd ever seen him.

For all the time they'd spent bantering in play outside the field of work, in it, they were colleagues. Equals. On the battlefield, he was the soldier and she was the spy. He ordered, she pretended to obey.

Except now he knew. And even without all the experience she'd harnessed in reading people, Natasha knew she'd cut him with the truth of her work.

Gone was the boyish Steve who'd grin at her through his lashes, almost shyly, when she'd tease him. Gone was the Steve who'd sheepishly chuckle whenever someone showed him something he hadn't discovered about the new century.

Instead, it was Captain America who sat across her, stoic and silent, brows furrowed, doggedly refusing to even look at her. The Captain was furious, though she knew he'd oblige to forgive if she pretended hard enough to be sorry.

Somehow she was having trouble working up the nerve to lie even more to him.

"The man's a moral compass. Lying to him is like lying to your ma. It's not worth it—he might not see through your lies, but the guilt'll kill you so fast you'd go running back to him with the truth in a minute." Clint had laughed himself sore when Fury had first paired them up for work several weeks following the disastrous events of New York. They were still in the process of picking up the pieces, with the Avengers reeling from the aftershocks, when the call had come.

All things considered, Natasha thought it had been a good and solid, if not logical move. Cap would do the heavy-lifting, taking out the bad guys while she snuck about on Fury's orders, gathering the intel SHIELD needed. At the same time, she could keep an eye on him, while keeping him occupied.

_An idle mind is the devil's plaything after all._

The arrangements made all the more sense when one took into account the Captain's single-minded focus where lives were concerned—he'd rescue the hostages, capture the infidels, liberate the concentration camps, so long as the orders from above didn't interfere with his set of principles and ethics. And even then, Natasha was sure he'd never be able to sit still as someone suffered, just to make a point. In the thick of it all, she knew, and Fury knew, that they could count on him to watch her back while she did her job, whether or not he knew _what_ that job entailed.

They'd counted on him never picking up on the fact that the Widow had missions of her own—not unless she wanted him to.

"He's a skilled fighter, and you're the best liar I have on my payroll." Fury had said.

"So you want me to lie to him."

"I want you to do your job."

"By lying to him."

Fury had narrowed his single eye at her then, unimpressed. "You're the best. _Be_ the best."

_Too bad he hadn't counted on Steve being too damn __**good**_. That made it hard to lie to him. _Or keep up a lie for too long, even._

She cleared her throat. He paid her no heed, and instead, turned aside to fix his eyes upon the row of parachutes lined up against the interior of their ride.

She bit back the urge to ask if he were practicing putting one on in his head—especially given his parachute-less stunt, not four hours ago. Somehow, she didn't think he'd appreciate her having a laugh at his expense so soon after the incident.

It would have been easier if he'd yelled at her. Instead, he pretended she wasn't there.

"Two minutes." Rumlow jerked his head towards the end of the craft, eyes pausing as he caught sight of the Captain and the Widow. One dark brow quirked; _what's up?_, his face asked.

She wrinkled her nose in response. He knew better than to ask.

When the carrier landed, he, along with the rest of the STRIKE team led the hostages out. The debriefing would be quick—there would be a lot of paperwork and post-traumatic counselling to get through.

Not everyone who worked with SHIELD had experienced horrors in the field.

Natasha let out a breath, then glanced across at Steve. "Wait up."

He'd gotten to his feet, his back to her, and barely spared her a look as he attached his shield to his arm. "What?"

Her hipbone complained as she stood; they'd landed badly after Batroc's grenade had gone off. For her part, she didn't think it hadn't been anything more than a minor annoyance, but Batroc had gotten away.

She added it into the list of reasons Captain Rogers was glaring at her in the present.

"What, are you going to ignore me forever? I said I was sorry."

His back tensed. He did not turn to face her. "No, you said it was your fault. That's not the same as saying you're sorry, and I'm not sure I'd believe you either way."

_Ouch._ That had stung. In better days and in a better mood, she'd have taken it as a compliment. Now all it did was to make her flush.

"I did my job."

"Yeah, well, you didn't do it well enough, then." His footsteps were heavy upon the metal flooring beneath them.

_That_ stung, even more. She gnashed her teeth together. _Don't get mad,_ her mind said.

_Fuck that._

"Yeah? By whose standards, Rogers?" She snarled as she strode after him, reaching to grab at his arm. "Yours? I had my orders, same as you. I followed mine, I got the data I needed, job well done."

His eyes glinted as he turned to face her. She didn't think it were possible for those eyes to be possessed by that rage—those sweet, tender eyes.

_Damn it._ She swallowed, and forced the bubbling in her chest down._ Not the right time, Nat._

"You lied to me." Despite the frustration-laced accusation in his tone, Steve did not pull away. She counted her blessings, but met his stony glare. "This just proves I can't trust you, Agent Romanoff."

She wasn't sure whether she was more hurt by his use of _that_ name, or furious at his judging her for following orders. She decided it was a combination of both.

The hand that shoved him away was rougher than she'd anticipated—but she was having enough trouble fighting the urge to tase him as it were. Her cheeks burned; there was an aching in her midsection that ran all the way up to her chest that she was certain had nothing to do with The Lemurian Star's hijacking.

It terrified her. All the more so because she knew that the only way to fix it was to apologise—and to once again, be close to, and be trusted by Steve Rogers.

Instead, she hissed, "Take it up with Fury, then."

* * *

**A/N:** Holy cow! Thanks so much, you guys, for the reviews, favs, and follows! They mean the world to me, and I can't say how much I appreciate the love and encouragement!

For the purpose of formality, I'll say this now: I own nothing. Marvel does.

Also, I should point out again (in case y'all are getting the wrong idea) that this is a collection of one-shots, and as such I'll be jumping in and out of order from time to time. It just so happens these first two oneshots are in order. Eh, heh.

I wrote this bit simply because I wanted to highlight that really, Nat didn't have a choice. She was following orders too, so for Steve to get pissed off at her is slightly unfair. She obviously thinks so too—and now Fury's going to get yelled at, ha. I assume they made up at some point, when she's had the chance to calm down from getting turned on by Steve being pissed.

Thanks again, until next time!


	3. III: Trust Issues

**III: Trust Issues**

* * *

He'd found her in a sterile bunker deep within the fortress Fury kept. She was lying on her back with her eyes shut, half in the nude, hands folded neatly over her abdomen. The blanket that shrouded her frame barely hid the bindings around her shoulder.

_Oh, Buck. What've we become?_

She remained unresponsive, even when he sank onto the rickety chair by her cot. It creaked; she barely twitched a brow. She was awake, he knew, but locked within the fortress of her mind. Her eyes were closed to him—they were a door, and if he wished to enter, he would need to knock harder. But he didn't. She was too hurt, too broken, too shattered. In the present, he knew she needed a moment to recoup. To just _be_.

Without a doubt, Steve understood that to look into her eyes would be to gaze into a mirror. Betrayed. They were both betrayed. With all their physical wounds tended to, the Captain and the Widow were nonetheless bled dry. They were barely holding it together. He, with determination. She, with retreat.

The twinge of guilt in his gut twisted his insides, set ablaze a trail of red-hot fury.

His friend. His best friend. The woman his best friend had shot—not once, but twice now. The woman who made him so mad, confused him, reeled him in one moment and pushed him away the next.

The woman he was unsure of—but yearned for nonetheless.

The days and hours swirled in his head. Piece by piece, like shrapnel piercing his body, the bullets hit hard and dug deep. Everything had changed. The world, the game, the people he thought he knew. HYDRA. SHIELD. Fury. Rumlow. STRIKE team. Neighbour. Pierce. Peggy. Bucky. Natasha. Bucky. Natasha.

"Steve?"

She must have heard the rise of his breaths, rapidly gaining volume and depth. Caught as she was in the walls of her own building, he knew she'd never fail to come to his aid. He'd told her. He trusted.

He trusted her with his life. He didn't know why—and from the way her face had barely changed, brows lifting with surprise at his admission, she didn't know why, neither.

Still, Steve Rogers would trust the Black Widow with his life.

His heart.

"Hey. Feel any better?"

Half-lidded eyes met his own. She quirked her lip, but barely managed to smile. Through the cracks in her defences, he saw her vulnerable.

The only difference was that she no longer tried to hide it. Not with him.

"Hurts like a bitch."

"Maybe you should sit this one out, Nat. It's going to get rough out there."

"I'll be fine." In the dimmed interior of her bunker, Steve nonetheless saw the creased lines of her face as she pushed herself into a seat. Her shoulders trembled; gingerly-coordinated, the Black Widow was in the moment, graceless. The smoothness of her movements, the fluidly measured lift of a leg, the slight tilt of her head—all agility ceased to become her.

All that remained before him, laid bare for scrutiny, was simply Natasha. Disarmed and shattered.

He couldn't shake the feeling that he'd somehow wronged her. Logic said otherwise, but that didn't make him feel any better.

_Damn it, Buck. Are you trying to kill my_—

—_partner_. He caught himself just in time. _My friend. My partner._

"You know, you're not as good at lying as you think."

The green in her eyes flashed. She snarled—then winced as the movement jarred her shoulder. The sound was enough to move him—his heart, his body.

In an instant, he was by her side, clutching her arm, holding her steady. To her credit, she did not pull away.

It was half of forever before she ceased to tremble. Still, he noted she tried for some semblance of the Black Widow. The low, husky burr delivered both sensual whispers in the dead of night, and growled threats in the heat of battle. It was that voice she carried—used, to inform him, that she was, still, Agent Romanoff. "I'm still better than you, Rogers."

He heard it loud and clear—but it wasn't enough to drown out the tight, barely-controlled notes in the words she spoke. The fear in her voice, the hurt that had drowned her throat.

It was deafening to him.

He chose to ignore the Widow. After all, he saw only Natasha. "Steve. We're friends now, remember?" She frowned. "I don't know, I've been asleep a while, but in my time, friends called each other by name."

She gnashed her teeth together, the straight, white pearls grinding hard. He saw the wetness pool in her eyes. Her voice grew harder; the walls thickened. She shoved him back.

He resisted.

"I thought of Nick as a friend. A leader, yes, but under that all, he was my friend. I trusted him _above all others_." Natasha's eyes were wide as she hissed through her teeth. Fingers clutched his shirt, knuckles pale. "Above all others, Rogers."

She'd seen the understanding in his eyes.

"_I wasn't sure who to trust."_

He thought he'd imagined it at first, the barely-hidden flinch. In Fury's presence, Natasha had disguised it as physical discomfort; the doctor at her side proved useful for this purpose. Still, Steve had to admit that he'd completely forgotten about it in the aftermath of their latest revelations. She was resilient—she was tough. A little hurt was something she'd weathered before, and could weather again.

But this was Nick Fury. He and Natasha shared a history that Steve now realised he knew nothing about.

He hadn't been aware of just how close to breaking point she was. And now that he was, Steve found himself wishing he could protect her. Physically, emotionally—wholly.

He reached for her hand. She flinched, again, but he held on tight. "People make stupid decisions sometimes. Doesn't mean anything. You know Fury, and he knows you."

She choked back a half-scathing chuckle. "He let me think he was dead, Rogers. How'd you feel?"

"My best friend was dead, too. And now he's not."

She looked at him then, voice softening. "I didn't mean—"

He managed a smile, but felt his limbs weaken. "It's okay." The ache in his stomach intensified. "At least Fury's not trying to kill you. And you won't have to face him, knowing full well he wants to kill you."

"You won't be alone." The words were barely whispered, but they cut through him like ice. He shut his eyes, willing the trembling to stop, begging for the pain to subside.

_Too much. It's too much._ Peggy. Bucky. Peggy. Bucky.

Natasha.

Her free hand found its way to his other, winding about his fingers. Bound this way, they clung to one another. Both aching, both comforting. She leaned forward, pressing her face against his chest. He could smell the dull, antiseptic shampoo in her hair, and became aware she could probably smell the same on him.

In unfamiliar surroundings with unfamiliar scents, sights and sounds, Steve nonetheless found Natasha perfectly familiar. She was simply that: Natasha.

"I'm with you, Steve." Again, the whisper. His name, barely perceptible. Fragile, a delicate thing. Raw.

_Honest_.

"I'm with you. I'm with you. _I'm_ with you."

Again and again, she repeated the words. When at last she fell silent, he lifted his head and pressed his forehead to her own, meeting her eyes.

In them, he saw himself. A reflection, both within and without.

He wanted to kiss her—take her in his arms and kiss her. Hold her close. Show her that she wasn't alone—that neither of them were alone.

Instead, he murmured, "I trust _you_ above all others, Nat."

Her eyes never wavered. Her fingers tightened. She swallowed.

"I trust you too, Steve."

* * *

**A/N:** Hi again, folks! And so soon, too! But I watched Captain America: The First Avenger last night, and now I'm having all kinds of fluffy CapWidow feels, so I figure one more for the road is always a good thing!

First off—Marvel owns everything. I'm just the fangirl who writes goofy fanfiction.

Secondly—thanks to all you wonderful readers/reviewers/fav-vers/followers! Inbox explosion never felt so good! Keep them coming, and do drop me a review! Means the world to me and I absolutely love hearing what you guys think! (Ideas for more one-shots are totally welcome.)

Third off—this fits better with the movie, in my head. The new bromance, with Sam talking to Steve about Bucky and the potential face off is great, but are we honestly supposed to believe he didn't run it through Natasha first? They spent the first half of the film being completely alone, with only the other for support, after all.

Last sentence—I initially wrote Nat responding in kind, as in, "I trust you above all others, Steve.", but really. She's way too guarded for that, though I do see her trusting him above all others, even if she won't admit it. Besides, Nat in my head has always been more show, and less tell. Steve probably gets it.

Right, enough rambling. Thanks so much, guys! Until next time—cheers!


	4. IV: Kiss Me

**IV: Kiss Me**

* * *

Pandemonium erupted. What was left of the city was engulfed in flames. The lights had died out hours ago, but the fire lit the way.

It showed only crimson. Crimson flames licking the edges of shattered rooftops and broken walls. Shards of glass littered the ruined streets and cracked pavements, reflecting golds, yellows, blues.

Yet the crimson was dominant. It flooded the cement, caking together dirt and tar.

It coated his hands. Washed his torso, dyed his clothes. In his mouth, it tasted like grime and steel, bile and salt. Drop by drop, it painted him red. He struggled to wipe at the crimson, but his arms were occupied. His hands shook. The scream in his throat refused to materialise. The pleas echoed in his head; his lips formed no words.

The crimson river continued to flow.

In his arms, his dying wife choked. Vivid green eyes wrought with terror. Lifeless hands limp by her side. Blood red hair matted down over her forehead and scalp—he wasn't sure her hair had always been this red.

"You'll be okay… please." The words were insufficient—still, they were what he managed. "_Please_."

She struggled to breathe. The harsh, strangled sound that escaped her throat near broke his resolve. He slumped forward; she rasped again. She'd stopped fighting some minutes before. Given up. Ceased to struggle, and accepted.

She'd resigned herself to her fate, with absolute certainty that he'd somehow see her through her final moments.

"_I trust you too, Steve."_

In his mind, the words she'd spoken were a thousand years old. A thousand years since they'd fallen in love. A thousand years since they'd dared to hope for a future together. A thousand years since their first _honest_ kiss, and the day she'd said _yes_. A thousand years since the first night they'd writhed beneath the sheets, locked in each other's arms.

The moment she'd gasped beneath him, tangled in his limbs, eyes affixed upon him with the glistening sheen of lovemaking fresh upon her brow—it was a thousand nights and a thousand days away.

A thousand lost ages. Days that went by too quickly and missions that lasted too long. Nights that satisfied his craving for her, yet left him pining for more. Those were the days and nights that led to this.

Natasha. _His_ Natasha, dying in his arms.

She was still watching him, her eyes, already blurry with mist, following the trail of his tears. Her lips—the lips he'd kissed so often—cracked and swollen, pale from blood loss, trembled; she tried to find words, but he was met with silence.

"Please, Nat. You _can't_."

Her brow twitched. If it were possible to hear a heart shatter, Steve thought the sound of Natasha's breaking would deafen them all. She struggled to swallow, and he leaned closer, held her tighter.

"_James._" The whisper was barely audible. She choked again, and her chest tightened; the gaping wound in her belly gushed. He gasped, pressed harder; she winced and let out a whimper. "_S-Ste— _"

"Stark's got him. James is safe."

At that, she relaxed, slowly blinking the moistness from her eyes. He thought he saw a wave of clarity wash over her features, and the tightness of her face softened as she watched him.

He hadn't realised how hard it had gotten for him to breathe. His hand trembled as it stroked at her hair, brushed it from her forehead. It came away bloody; he struggled to fight back a sob. "Please, Nat…"

_Please don't leave me here all alone._

She wore that face—it was one he knew well, one that she had worn in the past each time she'd woken to hear him thrashing in his sleep, fighting nightmares that never quite left. Riddled with sympathy and love, and helplessness. She could, and did, try to soothe him in the aftershock of his nightmares, nights where he'd wake from the terror drenched in sweat, where sleep eluded him. He'd felt better for her company, the warm feel of her arms and legs wound about his body.

Sapped of all strength, Natasha could no longer comfort. He wondered if she'd ever realised his worst nightmare was losing her.

_Kiss me._

There was no sound. Only the faint parting of her trembling lips as she mouthed the words. On the escalator, he'd been hesitant. That time he'd confessed, he'd been shy. The night they made love, when she'd asked him yet again to kiss her, he'd complied with the dutiful affection of a man who loved with all his heart. On their wedding day, he'd been hopeful—they'd both been, standing on the frontier of their brave new future together.

Yet now, Steve found himself fearful. He wanted to kiss her, to be close to her and to show her that she was loved and cherished and wanted. Still, the gesture struck him as one of finality.

_She must realise it._ His mind raced, his heart thumped in his throat. _Surely, she knows._

_Kiss me._ She mouthed the words again. There was no desperation in her face—only his. She was hurting, she was tired. James was safe; she would go, peacefully.

The only thing left to do, was to say goodbye.

He ignored the stream of tears trickling down his chin. The crystal droplets washed trails of dirt from Natasha's face where they landed. He wiped them away, barely managing to smile. "Public displays of affection make people very uncomfortable."

She smiled then; furrowed brow, lips curled in vague amusement. Weakly, she nodded, the movement barely distinguishable. _Yes, they do._

He kissed her then. Salty steel and fiery ash swirled between them; he held her close, she reciprocated with what strength she had left. What passed between them was chaste—yet it said all he wanted. It was mere seconds, it was eternity.

_I love you with all my heart. _

_I trust you. _

_I'll watch over James. _

_I'll always be with you._

The world stopped when Natasha went limp in his arms. He didn't know if his heart had stopped, too.

Steve Rogers had died with her. What was left, now, was the shell. The muscles, the strength, the shield. His heart, the heart that made Steve Rogers a good man—in weariness and grief, _that_ had ceased to beat. Steve Rogers had ceased to _be_.

The Captain got to his feet. Ultron was waiting for him.

* * *

**A/N:** Hi again, everybody! As always, thanks so much for the favs, follows and reviews! I always look forward to them, and I'm looking forward to more juice! And most importantly—I don't own anyone. Marvel does.

As some of you might have realised, this was lifted (partially—they have a kid and Ultron kills them all, but in this incarnation, Peggy still dies and Bucky still becomes the Winter Soldier) from the Next Avengers, where basically everyone dies and leaves kids. I have to say I disagree with pretty much how James doesn't really acknowledge Nat as his mom throughout the entire movie. Bad James! Bad!

And of course, Steve, is absolutely gutted, having lost Peggy and Bucky and basically everyone in his life. And now, losing Nat, he finally breaks. I don't have any doubt he'd have forced himself to recover for James' sake if he'd survived, because he's A GOOD MAN above it all, but I get the feeling in that moment, he just wanted it all to end. He needs a hug, or a fruit basket, damn it.

Thanks for reading!


	5. V: Shall We Play A Game?

**V: Shall We Play A Game?**

* * *

It had started innocently enough. They'd completed their mission with hours left to spare. With a debriefing imminent and nerves too wired for sleep, the three agents had, at Sam's insistence, opted for breakfast. He'd been working round the clock on a new lead with Steve, and was present when the call had come. Fury trusted him enough; so did Coulson, by extension.

No one questioned his presence at the briefing on board The Bus. May had quirked a brow, but the moment passed without further inquiry. They'd departed for the mission with him in tow, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

The diner they'd chosen was fairly large, with wide, open windows and striped seats. An hour at the most from sunrise, it was empty. The waitress' eyes scanned them through, pausing over the distinctive shield Steve held, and the curve of Clint's bow where it rested snugly in the quiver strapped to his back. The corner of the young girl's lips tugged upwards—then she'd jerked her head towards one of the booths by a darker corner.

As Clint and Sam perused the menu, arguing over pancake flavours and waffle toppings, Natasha watched the Captain. He was seated directly opposite her, his shield propped up in the seat by his side and his elbows upon the table. His cheek was pressed into the open palm of his hand—he was exhausted, but too noble to admit to it.

She'd only seen him face to face a bare handful of times since their parting over Nick's grave. In those moments, they'd been caught up. Busy in various ongoing situations the world seemed bent on throwing upon them. They'd hardly been able to get a word in beyond the necessary.

She wondered if he'd missed her as much as she'd missed him—and hated herself for even thinking it.

Their eyes had met, and she'd felt it—the rush of blood to her head, the warmth that spread to her chest and stomach, and the momentary breathlessness that made her head swim. He'd grinned at her then, that boyish smile she'd thought often of. Then he'd jerked his head quickly aside.

_The boys have got to eat, right?_

She'd rolled her eyes. Under the table, his foot never shifted where it lay beneath hers.

They ate in relative silence. Bacon and eggs, sausages and beans, potatoes and toast. The boys had finally settled on chocolate-chip pancakes and banana-cinnamon waffles. The waitress kept them supplied in black coffee and huge portions befitting huge appetites. Natasha bit back a remark about a distinct lack of Asgardians and vociferous appetites in the vicinity.

She didn't think any of them would care to relive the Thor-Barton hotdog-eating rivalry of 2012.

The conversation veered off towards leisurely activities. Sam read mystery novels. Clint tinkered. They both played video games. As boys did, of course.

Two hours later, they were joined by Coulson and May. They'd watched, caught between amusement and perplexity; the pair were engaged in a heated debate about Capcom versus Blizzard. For her part, Natasha didn't know that she'd minded too much—grown men arguing over video games was something she'd had rare occasion to witness.

The argument had ended when May hauled Clint from his seat without so much as batting an eyelash. They'd sulked the entire ride back to The Bus.

Two weeks later, Natasha walked into Clint's apartment, only to find him at the desktop, grumbling profanities under his breath. The furious clicking and rapid punching of buttons tipped her off. He was in Prime Gamer Posture, as she'd so often heard Hill say.

"Your life globe's near zero."

"Tell me something I don't know."

"You're getting mauled to death."

"Go to hell, Nat."

"I'm sure I'll see you there in a bit."

She stalked away, but not before the demon hunter on-screen flipped over and died. The strangled yell was muffled by Clint's equally-frustrated cry. She told him it was the girliest sound she'd ever heard. He threw his mouse at her.

She spent the night eating pizza, working on reports they'd meant to do together. Clint resumed screaming at his desktop. It was well past midnight when she let herself out—he was still at it.

The next day, Steve made an off-hand remark about Sam's gaming habits. The Falcon, sleepy-eyed and irritable, could only scowl. Natasha shared a knowing glance with the Captain.

It was another week later when she'd encountered Clint at it again. They'd just finished extracting a package from a bunker in Alaska. The moment they'd handed it off to Coulson and made their way to his apartment, Clint resumed The Stance.

She'd watched as Hawkinawesome zipped across the screen, firing bolts in all directions. He'd ignored all her remarks and quips, and at one point attempted to shove her off her chair, which she'd pulled to his side.

She suspected it was because she'd told him his hunter needed a new spine.

It seemed an eternity later before he pushed his chair back. She arched a brow at him. He nodded at the screen. The chatbox read: **Suck on that, flyboy.**

Hawkinawesome was at just over 3 million* sheet damage. In the bathroom, his player was singing a made-up tune about puny monks going down.

She settled herself into his chair and clicked her way into the character loading screen. In a few brief moments, she'd run through the basics of the game. The female counterpart to Clint's hunter was by far more pleasant to look at. Judging by Sam's selection—_his_ monk was female, blonde, and had the most ridiculous accent—at least one of them was the quintessential male.

The chat box lit up.

**Said 1 mil. toughness.****

She bit back a laugh. The sounds in the shower died away. Clint called out something about bed, and to turn the lights off when she left.

Alone and amused, Natasha cracked her knuckles.

**New character, new pickups. We'll see who can get a toon to max with epic gear to boot first.**

There was a pause. She wondered if Sam had passed out.

**Seven AM. Brawl imminent.**

Hours later, with the sunlight only beginning to stream through the blinds by Clint's desk, the chat box blinked again.

**Level 70.**

Natasha straightened in her chair, lowering her folded legs onto the cold, hardwood floors. The joints in her back popped into place. Her fifth mug of coffee lay abandoned by the mouse. Sometime in the night, the adrenaline rush following the completion of her mission had dissipated. Caffeine had been necessary in order to complete her new mission.

_Infiltrate. Learn what you can about the subject. Avoid detection. Destroy evidence if necessary._

She knew Sam would never bring it up if he thought Clint had beat him. She hadn't counted on the game being _so damn fun_.

"Alright, Sam. Let's see what you've got."

She hit enter. **Come at me, bro.**

Within moments, they'd fired up the game. She watched the screen as Sam's toon—the male counterpart to his female monk—darted about. Bearded and bald. She noted he had a better accent, and approved.

The brawling arena was a small dungeon in-game. As the screen loaded, she checked the time.

7:01 AM. In the bedroom, Natasha could only just make out the sounds of Clint tossing about. He'd never been a quiet sleeper.

**Best two out of three.**

The response came almost immediately. **Scared of a one-hit KO?**

**In your dreams.**

**Ladies first.**

She didn't need to be told twice. The monk barely had a moment to dash away before the sky rained plummeting beasts. He tried to retreat, but the huntress was ready with her arrows. The corpse flew. She allowed herself the slightest bit of celebration, throwing both hands into the air.

_Ranged attacks. How fitting for Clint._

Half a second later, the screen flashed red; Sam had revived, and was _everywhere_ as far as she could see. As she clicked furiously for a hasty retreat, she thought she saw the monk run across the top left corner of the screen. The map told her he was in motion—and coming right at her. She fired, but the arrows bounced off the shield that had formed around him. In the three seconds the shield remained active, he'd reached her and delivered a single, fiery blow—an implosion that sent her huntress deep into the earth in a scorched, bloody heap.

She gnashed her teeth together. Reviving took a half second. He was on the run by then, likely aware of an impending counter-attack. She gave chase; he continued to hide, choosing nooks behind walls where her arrows couldn't reach. It took another bout of plummeting sky-beasts to draw him out into the open, but she'd noted her attacks were dealing less and less damage. Likely the pulsing circle of runes beneath his feet were the cause. In that time, he continued his forward assault, sending pillars of fire in her direction with flaming roundhouse kicks. She vaulted away, again and again and again.

The circle of runes disappeared. She vaulted at him, sparing no time in punching the next attack key. The fan of knives emitted a metallic screech. He died with a scream.

The chat box popped up. **This means nothing.**

She scoffed. **Says the loser.**

The string of insults continued for a few more minutes before Sam consented to log off. Natasha heaved a sigh of relief as she blacked the screen out. The room was bright with sunlight. She rubbed at her eyes, then stifled a yawn.

It was mid-day when they met again. The rendezvous point was an old warehouse near the diner where it had all begun. She watched as they'd filed into the musky building. Sam nodded at her as he passed. She smirked in response.

"You look exhausted."

She glanced over at Steve. He was busy with his bracers, but his eyes were upon her. She noted the circles under his eyes—yet he looked too happy, to have been suffering sleeplessness as a result of the nightmares she knew still plagued him from time to time. Too _gleeful_, even.

_Something's wrong here. Something doesn't add up._

She slanted her gaze aside towards Sam. In contrast, he looked remarkably rested. _Too_ well rested, for someone who'd been up gaming all night.

"I hear you got knocked clean out last night."

Sam arched a brow at her. "Well, yeah. I was exhausted. We all were." He gave her a once-over. "Seems to me like you didn't get any sleep, though."

It was genuine confusion—enough to convince her. _That was not Sam I crushed to a pulp last night._

Seconds later, a cough brought her back to the present. She glanced over at Steve. He met her gaze with a look of equal confusion, brows furrowed, as if he were trying to figure something out. Then his eyes widened, and he took a step back, evidently scandalised.

_Well, fancy that. I beat Captain America in a video game and I didn't even realise it._

The shock passed quickly enough, giving way to sheepish amusement. A guilt-ridden smile curled the Captain's lips. She narrowed her eyes, but found it hard to scowl. Part of her reeled, found it difficult to believe that Steve of all people could exude the archetypal gaming male with such familiarity. His use of jargon, his mastery of the game—it had fooled even her.

She blamed her lack of sleep.

He was still looking guiltily at her, his eyes stark beneath the frame of his lashes. But he was aware of her scepticism. Acknowledged it, even, with the slightest shrug of his shoulder. She was certain he'd enjoyed every moment of it, no matter how hard he tried to deny the fact.

She decided to never tell him how much she'd enjoyed it herself.

He glanced over his shoulder to check that Sam and Clint were out of earshot before speaking up. "Stark made me play Streetfighter."

"That where you learnt about one hit KOs?"

"_That_, I learnt from Happy. Something about a notary Pepper hired fighting dirty."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

* * *

**A/N:** First off, I should apologise to those of you who don't play Diablo III, because this one-shot might be hard to get otherwise. It's one of the other fun activities I enjoy, and I hope I made it sufficiently reader-friendly. The general idea is that Sam and Clint have some rivalry going on for goodness knows what, and that Steve and Nat just spent all night _gaming_ with each other without even knowing. It's a fluff piece, go with it.

Secondly, some things I should explain:

*3 million is considered really high damage for a demon hunter.

**The constitution of your character in DIII is measured by your toughness. 1 million is pathetic. In other words, Clint was building a glass canon.

The male demon hunter _hunches_. It's been suggested by lots of players that he get spinal reconstruction surgery. Hee hee hee.

Both the male and female monk speak in Russian accents. Trust Nat to be snarky about it.

The monk has a skill that shields them from all attacks. Captain America. Shield. Fun times.

And yes. When your toon dies, the corpse sometimes _flies_.

Now that all the explaining is done, disclaimer time! I don't own Marvel or Blizzard or Capcom, which is briefly mentioned. I imagine Sam's going to make Clint play Resident Evil after this. Ha.

Last but not least, thanks so much to all of you for the favourites and follows, and to **sleeplessinbudapest** for the review! I'd love to hear from the rest of you too, so please drop me a review and let me know what you think and what you'd like to see more of! Until next time, cheers!


	6. VI: Saturday Night's Alright

**VI: Saturday Night's Alright For Fighting**

* * *

"Hit me."

He eyed her, brows furrowed, sweat beading his face. "I don't want to hurt you."

She raised a brow and folded her arms, widening her stance. He watched her with concern, anxiety rippling through the corded muscles that made up his torso and arms. It amused her, somewhat, his concern—the worry he'd hurt her.

As if he _could_.

"Cap, I don't know what you've heard about me—"

"_She can beat you up ten ways to Sunday, and won't hesitate._"

"Exactly."

The corner of his lip quirked slightly as he regarded her. He straightened, brushed his hands off on his sweatpants, and crossed his arms, matching her stance. "Agent Romanoff, I have no doubt you'd be able to take me to school if you really wanted to."

"So what's the problem, Rogers?"

"I know you've read my file. I know, that _you_ know, that I was trained in a camp that made it pretty difficult for men to underestimate women."

She tried to ignore the slight strain in his voice, the slight narrowing of his eyes that betrayed a lifetime of hurt and loss.

Despite the surge of emotion rippling through her chest, Natasha was trained to conceal. She lifted her chin slightly, meeting his eyes. "If you're telling me your refusal to hit me has something to do with some forties chivalry, Rogers, you can save it."

"It's called morals, ma'am. I don't hit women."

"In this century, it's called being sexist."

He let out a breath. She was relieved to see the ache in his eyes dissipating, blending into a combination of exasperation and exhaustion. "I don't think Barton's going to approve of my brawling with his missus."

"First mistake—I'm _nobody's_ missus."

Steve frowned—then slowly, one blond eyebrow quirked upward. She heard his voice in her head, despite his physical silence. _Really?_

Gritting her teeth, she lunged for him, throwing out her fist. She expected he would block it—he did not disappoint, his hand surging upward, strong fingers curling about her wrist. His eyes met hers. She favoured him with a smile, knowing it would serve both to confuse, and to bait—then grabbed his wrist with her free hand, and without warning, swung her body upwards, locking her thighs about his neck.

He'd hit the ground before he'd even found the time to yelp. He blinked at her, slightly stunned, dazed, somewhat embarrassed. Natasha leaned closer—as intended, she'd landed atop him, knees pressed into the ground on either side of his chest. It didn't take him long to find his bearings—and his indignance.

He scowled, though she failed to see any real venom behind it. "They also said you didn't fight fair."

She felt her lip curl. "I _don't._"

Steve grunted as she rolled off him. She doubted he'd felt more than a slight nudge at her elbow connecting with his broad, solid chest, but offered a hand to him, anyway. He shook his head, and helped himself to his feet.

"Come on, Rogers. My boss gave me a mission. Don't make it any harder for me, will you?"

"What's he scared I'd do? I'm about as sane as a person can be after a long-haul flight sixty years into the future." He peered at her, eyes searching. "And if I were really in need of a baby-sitter, do you honestly think Fury would approve of your methods?"

She shrugged. "Keep him occupied, he'd said. He didn't specify _how_." Amusement bubbled within her. She jerked her head gently at him, pursing her lips briefly. "I have other… methods, but I think you'd disapprove of them even more."

He frowned at her. Moments passed—then his expression changed, confusion melting away into nervous understanding coupled with muted horror. Somehow, he managed to keep his voice level. "I came here to punch things."

She flexed her fingers, then bent her knees, broadening her stance. "Good. Punch me." She paused. "Or try."

He was hesitant at first, but she was relentless. Assault after assault, swiftly-timed kicks meeting deft punches and sheer brute force. He'd charge, she'd dart away. She'd strike, he'd parry. Twice more, she brought him to the ground in a tangle of sweaty limbs and frustrated grunts. He'd retaliated with a few well-aimed blows of his own, though he'd halted their session long enough to apologise profusely each time they'd landed.

She didn't know whether she found his honourable manners more irritating, or endearing. Her left shoulder throbbed where she'd landed when he'd wrestled her onto the floor. There was a cut on her jawline that stung—landing solidly atop her, his face had collided with hers, his teeth cutting into her pale flesh.

He'd been so stricken by guilt that he'd called for a ceasefire.

She'd floored him for it, throwing him chest-down and twisting his arm back. He hadn't let her hold him down for long, though, and she didn't try to keep him so. Again and again, they tumbled and rolled, breathless, yet unwilling to concede.

Eventually, they'd ended up on their backs upon the mats, limbs strewn over limbs, faces mere inches apart. He stared at her then, panting hard, his chest heaving beneath her forearm. They'd given up struggling some minutes before, each trying to wrangle the other into submission, and both failing and succeeding at the same time.

She forced herself to ignore the way his lashes, drenched in sweat, seemed to curl against his eyelids. The hardness of his body, the muscle-bound arm and lightly-fisted hand by her cheek—she blocked them out, and focused instead on his eyes.

"You've worn me out, Rogers. Now you owe me a drink."

He chuckled weakly, and shifted the hand closest to her, clasping his palm over his face. His voice came out muffled. "I think this is the part where I fall asleep, ma'am."

There was a slight teasing tone to his voice that made her think he hadn't quite meant it as innocently as one might have imagined. But when he removed his hand moments later, the smile on his face was warm, innocuously sweet. She decided he was simply unaware.

"Already? Don't put Doctor Erskine to shame, soldier. His serum's worth more than one round."

He groaned as he shifted, supporting himself on his arm as he looked down at her. "I think he'd be proud I lasted as long, actually. You never met me before."

She rolled over and sat up as he got to his feet and made towards the benches. He grabbed some towels, then returned to her side.

"When you were just a skinny kid from Brooklyn, you mean?"

Steve tilted his head slightly, one hand rubbing the back of his head dry of sweat. He handed her a bottle of water. "Yeah. You'd probably have knocked me out in three seconds flat."

She pursed her lips, fighting back a smile. It was difficult to—particularly in the presence of Steve Rogers, who was known to melt hearts with his genuinely warm smiles.

Skinny or not, she didn't think that would ever change.

"Maybe." She unscrewed her bottle of water. Their eyes met. She allowed the smile lingering upon her lips to materialise. "But for what it's worth, I don't think you'd stay down, Rogers."

He sat cross-legged by her side, his own grin broadening slightly. There was a slight flush in his cheeks that she thought had nothing to do with how winded they both were. She handed him her opened bottle of water—he took a long drink.

She watched him as he drank, his half-lidded eyes affixed upon a faraway point. He was lost in his thoughts—she'd often seen him zone out, and though he'd come back to the present when someone called, it was always with the same look of regret. He was out of place, and aching for a time that was lost, far beyond his grasp.

_You saw how he was in New York. He needs company in this new world. He needs someone rooted in today's society and technology, but with enough knowledge of his world. You're it._

She'd questioned Fury's choices at first. If it were technological know-how, Stark would've been the go-to-person. And there were other ways to teach him about how the world had changed, without assigning a permanent caretaker to him.

Still, even she had to admit that watching him surface from thoughts of his past was gut-wrenching. He ached, but the watcher ached too.

She reached out to touch his shoulder. He jerked back, startled, his sky-touched eyes wavering as they found hers. She squeezed gently. He quirked a corner of his lip upward.

"C'mon, Cap. Let's go get you a drink."

"You know that doesn't do anything for me, right?"

"That's why we're going for ice cream sodas."

He snorted as he got to his feet in her wake. "Isn't that a bit old-fashioned?"

"Well, I'm an old fashioned sort of gal." She threw her sweatshirt over her training tank. "You coming or not?"

He followed her to the door, depositing the nearly-empty bottle of water into the wastebin. "So, not Barton, then?"

"None of your business, Rogers."

* * *

**Author's Note:** Hi, guys! First off, thanks so much for the reviews and favs and follows! It means a lot to me, and I look forward to hearing more! If you've got any suggestions for one-shots, please do tell me and I'll try to accommodate!

Next up—I don't own anything, Marvel does.

This one was written to set up a bit of backstory between New York and The Winter Soldier. I assume afterwards, when all his superhero friends had gone back to where they'd come from, Cap would've needed something to hang onto. Fortunately, Fury thought Natasha was it. I don't think she's complaining.

It's pretty self-explanatory either way, so I hope y'all enjoyed it! Cheers, until next time!

**PS**—in my head, Steve was totally teasing Nat when he said it was maybe time for him to fall asleep. _ He's shown he's not incapable of joking, after all. Hur hur.


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